


A spoonful of heat

by Anonymous



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Brothers, Fluff and Angst, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, WTSIOA verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:27:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27829687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Two brothers through the years.
Relationships: Auguste & Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 94
Collections: Anonymous





	A spoonful of heat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [azanatha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azanatha/gifts).



> Happy birthday, [Sophia](http://azanatha.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> I hope you like this small gift half as much as I've liked your drawings and stories. You're an amazing friend and artist. Smart, kind, funny, and talented. You also happen to be one of the best people I have met in this fandom. Thank you for making this bleak year a little brighter, both with your art and your obsession with Kvass. 
> 
> Love you!
> 
> This is a WTSIOA prequel, but you do not need to have read that fic to understand anything about this one. The title comes from Anne Sexton's poem "Yellow".

**0 — 12**

Laurent was sleeping on his back when Auguste met him.

He had blond patches of hair, fairer than Mother’s, and he wasn’t nearly as pale as Auguste had always pictured him. Every part of him, from his cheeks to the tip of his fingers, seemed to be blushing bright pink. 

“Be gentle,” Mother said, watching from the bed. She had not left her rooms since the birth, four days ago. Father had told him it was best not to disturb her, and so Auguste had stayed away. Until now. “He is smaller than you were.”

Auguste did not know what he was supposed to do. He’d seen children before, but never this young. Considering all the fuss he had created, Laurent was surprisingly boring. He only breathed and drooled and frowned in his sleep.

“He looks,” Auguste said, and paused. What was the word Father had used to describe Lady Susanne’s daughter? He struggled for another moment, and then finished: “Well-bred.”

Mother laughed. The sound faded away quickly, but it comforted Auguste to know she had enough strength left to laugh.

“If you wish to hold him—“

As if to protest such an outrageous suggestion, Laurent started squirming in his crib. It only took him a second to start wailing, open-mouthed and beet-red, so loudly Auguste startled back several steps.

“He is only hungry,” said Mother. “Bring him to me, darling.”

Auguste flushed even though there was no one in the room who’d heard her. He’d told her, several times now, that he did not want to be called such names.

Laurent wasn’t heavy. It was easy to pick him up, hands under the baby’s armpits, but no sooner had Auguste lifted him a few inches than his mother tsked and told him to stop.

“Hold him to your body. His neck is not strong enough to support his head yet.”

Auguste hugged Laurent to him as he walked towards the bed. By the time he’d made it to his mother’s side, the baby had stopped crying, his wet face pressed to the front of Auguste’s shirt. It was getting damp.

Mother took him. Instantly, Auguste felt the loss of warmth in his arms but said nothing of it, thinking that at least now his clothes would not be covered in drool.

“Your Highness,” one of the wetnurses said from the doorway. “His Majesty is waiting for you in the courtyard.”

He had to train today. Or maybe Father wanted them to go hunting again. Auguste dithered a moment too long, and Mother noticed. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to obey, to do as he was asked to, but it all seemed suddenly unfair. He wanted the baby—Laurent, he reminded himself—to come along as well. Why did Auguste have to go out into the rain and get soaked while Laurent got to stay inside with Mother?

“He’ll be tugging on your sleeve soon enough,” said Mother with a smile. “Go now, Auguste. Don’t keep your father waiting.”

*

Three weeks later, Mother started to leave her rooms again. She’d walk the gardens for an hour in the morning, a lady or two by her side, and lounge the evenings away with the court. 

Laurent was never with her, but every time the door to her rooms opened Auguste heard the annoying sound of high-pitched screams and cries, despite sleeping on the other side of the wing. Then the door would close again, swallowing all noise, and Mother would emerge breathtakingly beautiful for her morning stroll. 

“Why does he cry so much?” Auguste asked Father one day, sweaty and exhausted from his sword practice. His instructor had complimented his grip, which in turn had made Father smile. “Does he not like Mother?”

“You’ve seen children before, Auguste. That’s simply how they behave.”

“Did I cry like that?”

Father snorted, amused. “Louder. Your brother only cries when he’s hungry or needs to be changed out of his clothes. You cried all the time for no reason.”

Auguste flushed at that. He thought of what a spectacle he must have been, to all the wet nurses and the guards, even to his parents. He was suddenly very ashamed and angry. He wished Father had not told him about it. 

*

Having a brother did not change Auguste’s life in any way. The same things were still expected of him—practice twice a day, meetings after lunch, studying until the candles at his desk had all melted down—and after two months had gone by Auguste almost forgot Laurent was real.

He was reminded of his existence one morning after he rushed into Mother’s rooms to tell her that the packages from Patras she had been waiting for had arrived. She was getting ready for the day, a lady taking care of the laces on the back of her green dress, and she did not seem too excited about the news Auguste had brought her.

The wet nurse was sitting on a chair, a bouncing baby on her lap.

Auguste approached them slowly. 

“Laurent?” 

The baby was bigger. He had more hair on his head, so blonde it looked like that powdery sugar Lady Margarite liked on her pastries. His eyes were very blue, more than Auguste’s, and he’d somehow managed to fit his entire fist into his mouth. He smiled at Auguste, gurgling and drooling, reaching for him with the hand that wasn’t being devoured.

“Your Highness, I don’t think—”

“Marianne, let him,” Mother said. “Make yourself useful and help me find my shoes.”

A moment later Auguste had replaced the wetnurse on the chair, his brother awkwardly placed on his lap. He still remembered Mother’s words about his neck, and so he was quick to make sure Laurent’s head didn’t loll to the side.

“Should I make him bounce, Mother?”

“Yes,” Mother said distractedly. She couldn’t bend over yet, thus why she needed Marianne’s help. Her eyes were on the woman as she rummaged through a trunk full of shoes. “They’re like slippers, silver and green. That’s a boot, Marianne.”

Laurent seemed to like it when Auguste moved his knees up and down. He didn’t laugh, not exactly, but his noises turned happier. At least that’s what they sounded like to Auguste. 

Laurent was very warm, Auguste noticed, like a ball of sunshine. And when he pressed his wet fist to Auguste’s cheek, he did so gently, smearing spit all over Auguste’s face.

It was impossible to forget about him after that.

**2 — 14**

Laurent had his own rooms now. He slept on a different wing of the palace, but Auguste didn’t mind the distance. He still cried a lot, which was why Mother had sent him away in the first place. 

Father, as usual, had stayed out of it.

On his way back from a particularly frustrating lesson, Auguste stopped by Laurent’s rooms to see if he wanted to sneak into the kitchens with him. Laurent couldn’t walk very well yet—stumbling was his favorite activity—but he was good company. He didn’t ask any questions or look at Auguste sideways. He certainly didn’t seem to care that Auguste would be his king one day.

“I was getting him ready, Your Highness,” said Marianne, little black shoes dangling from her hands. “Did the Queen send for him?”

“No,” said Auguste as he picked Laurent from his crib. He was getting heavier. “I’ll carry him. You can keep the shoes.”

Marianne hesitated. “But—”

“He likes to be barefoot. If you force him to wear them, he’ll just kick them off like he always does.”

Auguste pressed his thumb to the sole of Laurent’s foot, making him squeal. He did it again and again until Laurent was red in the face from laughing too hard.

“There,” said Auguste in a low voice, watching Marianne put away the tiny, uncomfortable shoes. “You owe me.”

“Owy,” said Laurent.

Marianne turned to them, now empty-handed. “He only needs his hair brushed, Your Highness. It won’t take too long.”

Auguste wanted to laugh at that. Laurent barely had any hair, and yet Mother still insisted on having it brushed a particular way, perhaps in an attempt to flatten the curls that were already forming there, tiny golden whirlpools. Auguste lifted Laurent off his hip and towards Marianne.

But Laurent didn’t seem to like that. He held on tightly, his little fingers curled around Auguste’s doublet, and wailed. On and on, as he had when his first tooth had come out and he’d been feverish with pain. 

_He’s got lungs, that one_ , Uncle would often say.

Auguste panicked. “All right, all right,” he said, almost chanting. He pushed Marianne’s hands away when they came to his aid, and focused on making Laurent bounce. “All right,” he said once more, against Laurent’s forehead. “Are you done crying?”

As a reply, Laurent tried to stick his fingers into Auguste’s mouth. When Auguste refused to open it, Laurent frowned, affronted.

“Do you want me to eat your fingers? Is that it?”

Laurent’s smile was wide and gummy, despite his pearly teeth. The drool on his chin didn’t bother Auguste, not even when it transferred onto the neckline of his shirt. It would dry, he reasoned, and if it didn’t Auguste would simply have to change clothes.

Marianne was watching them. She was nice most of the time, but there was a glint in her eyes that bordered on intelligence. It made Mother very upset, although Auguste did not understand why. 

Her gaze made Auguste feel awkward. Unable to show it, he simply smiled at her and stepped out of the rooms, Laurent still in his arms.

“I want something sweet before lunch. What do you think, Laurent?”

“Ole?” 

Auguste laughed. “Yes. Dariole. That’s what we’re stealing today.”

Laurent made a pleased sound as he settled in Auguste’s arms. He knew he had to be quiet in the kitchen or else the cooks would take him away and cut his toes off one by one, as Mother had told him once. The threat hadn’t scared Auguste, who knew it wasn’t true. And it seemed Laurent wasn’t scared of it either, as long as it was Auguste carrying him into the kitchens.

*

  
Auguste let Laurent have all the cream filling he wanted, even if it meant Auguste got stuck eating the buttery crusts Laurent left behind. They ate under the table, Laurent on his lap, licking his sticky fingers and smiling. 

_When I’m the king_ , Auguste thought, _I won’t have to hide like this_. He’d eat sweets on the table instead of under it, and there’d be no foolish instructors and teachers to criticize him. It’d be wonderful. 

He never thought much of what he’d have to trade in for the crown. Of whom he’d lose.

**4 — 16**

Laurent liked horses. 

Last year, when Laurent finally learned how to walk to places on his own two legs without a hand holding his, Father had to make sure there were always men guarding the stables. Apparently, Laurent did not understand lying on piles of hay and stroking horses did not count as parts of his studies. 

An Ambassador had gifted Laurent a wooden horse to play with this summer, complete with reins and little wheels that creaked as a real saddle would. Laurent carried it everywhere with him, even places he was not supposed to, such as the Council room or Auguste’s lyre lessons. 

On more than one occasion, Auguste had caught him neighing, as if trying to imitate the animals.

“You like horses,” said Auguste, frustrated.

Laurent was holding onto his neck, his grip painful. His short legs were wrapped around Auguste’s waist in a rather unprincely manner, and Auguste knew that if Father saw this scene he would not be pleased with either of them. Especially not with Auguste.

“No,” said Laurent. His face was pressed to Auguste’s shoulder. “It’ll bite.”

“It’s not going to bite you.”

The pony was the smallest horse Auguste had ever laid eyes on. It had been hand-picked for Laurent by the stable master, not only because of his size but also because of his docility. It was a dumb animal, in other words, and Laurent needed dumb and pliant to start with.

Father’s words were on the back of Auguste’s throat. _Laurent, you’re making a scene_. It was the truth, but Auguste still couldn’t bring himself to say it. Slowly, he pried open Laurent’s small fists and started to lower him onto the saddle.

“Auguste.”

“I won’t let it bite you,” said Auguste, and that alone seemed enough to calm Laurent down into letting go of Auguste’s waist. “Here, take the reins.”

Laurent did, chubby fingers turning white around the leather. Auguste would have laughed, had he not known it would hurt Laurent’s feelings.

The animal squirmed under Laurent’s thighs, making Laurent raise his arms for Auguste to pick him up. When Auguste didn’t, he frowned.

“You need to learn,” said Auguste. “Or else we won’t be able to race each other. Isn’t that a terribly boring prospect?”

The riding instructor cleared his throat. He had remained quiet ever since Auguste had been brought here under his desperate request that someone help him get the youngest prince on the horse. Mother and Father were too busy, and so Auguste had come in instead.

“Thank you, Your Highness. I apologize for causing you trouble.”

“My brother is no trouble to me,” said Auguste, and then flushed at his own words. Somehow that had sounded worse than Mother calling him darling. “I’ll be—away. Studying, I mean.”

“Auguste,” said Laurent as soon as he felt Auguste start to pull away from his side. “Stay?”

“I—”

“Stay please,” Laurent said, smug and smiling. He thought of please as a magic word, the kind one could say and any wish or request would come true. It was a small lie Marianne had come up with to make him less disagreeable. “I will ride very fast and quick and—and—”

“Swift?”

“—like you.”

Auguste felt himself grin. He wasn’t above compliments yet, especially not about these things. He was a good rider, a good hunter, and an even better fighter. It felt nice to be told out loud.

“I’ll sit here and watch for a while,” said Auguste. “Go on. Do as your teacher says.”

Laurent did not fall off his saddle once, which was rather impressive. Auguste remembered his first lesson, how he’d ridden for what felt like hours around the stables, only to land on his behind when he’d accidentally nicked his horse with the buckle of his boot. 

The instructor seemed pleased. Auguste smiled; this would get back to Father. 

Laurent insisted on holding his hand as they walked to dinner that night. “And did you see it? He was very fast. I was very fast, wasn’t I? Auguste?”

“Yes,” Auguste said. “You were. I’ve never seen anyone as fast as you on a horse.”

Laurent flushed hard at the compliment. He even forgot to protest when Auguste ruffled his hair.

*

Father took his cup away. It was still half full, but when Auguste opened his mouth to protest Father said, “Vices are for second sons.”

They were in the middle of a feast, in honor of Auguste’s sixteenth birthday. Tonight he’d be allowed to bed a pet, any pet he chose, and even though Auguste acted as though the prospect of sharing his bed for the first time with another person didn’t excite him, it did. Terribly so.

It also made him anxious, which was why he’d started drinking mead in the first place. It was better, he thought, than wringing his hands. Father didn’t like that.

“Aleron,” Uncle said. He was shaking his head. “You wound me.”

Father raised an eyebrow at him. “Do I lie?”

Auguste stopped listening after that. He tried to focus on the music that was playing, but it only made him more nervous. Soon his hands were sweating, no matter how insistently he rubbed them on his pants. He tried to keep his wriggling to a minimum, for tonight was his night, and he didn’t wish to be scolded in front of the whole table. Not again.

Uncle placed his hand on Laurent’s head. “The King seems to think we’re both menaces. What do you have to say for yourself, nephew?”

Laurent’s pink tongue darted out of his mouth. He did that when he was concentrating on something. At last, he said, “Yes, uncle.”

Auguste couldn’t help himself. He laughed alongside Uncle, and even Mother offered them a smile. Only Father sulked, but that wasn’t surprising. He never found anything that came out of Laurent’s mouth amusing.

Under the table, Auguste found Laurent’s tiny hand and gave it a squeeze.

**5 — 17**

Laurent said, “Give it up, Augu—Akielon!”

Auguste wanted to laugh. He was on the floor, on his back, trying not to wince as Laurent stepped all over his legs and pressed the tip of his wooden sword to Auguste’s neck. The sheet Laurent had forced him to wear as a chiton was at least keeping the cold tiles from freezing his skin, and for that Auguste was grateful.

“Never.”

In an unprecedented turn of events, Laurent smacked Auguste with the sword. On the head.

“Laurent, you—”

“Do you yield?” 

Auguste rubbed at his head. He could feel a lump forming under the pads of his fingers. “You can’t hit me like that.”

“I won’t hit you again,” Laurent said, “if you give me Delfeur back.”

“And if I don’t?”

Laurent smacked him again, hard, on the ribs. Auguste wheezed, the pain spreading through his body in waves. He caught Laurent by the wrist before the demon could strike again, and pulled him down to the floor, wrapping him in the mess of sheets to keep him there.

Unashamed, Laurent started laughing. He kicked at Auguste, or at least tried to, and when that didn’t work he resorted to trying to tickle Auguste’s neck instead. He did it too roughly, uncoordinatedly, and so it didn’t tickle. But Auguste pretended to laugh anyway.

“Yield,” Laurent said. “I yield.”

“Do you?”

Laurent’s face was the shade of berries. “Auguste, stop—”

Auguste pulled back. His head and ribs still hurt, but he wasn’t angry anymore. “Did you learn your lesson, Your Highness?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“A kiss then,” Auguste said, pointing at his cheek. “Please, Your Highness, I believe I will faint if you don’t grant me the great honor of—”

Laurent pressed a wet and loud kiss to Auguste’s cheek. It was nice, but they’d have to work on his drooling problem. He laughed at the thought, and Laurent sulked at him.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Laurent said.

“I’m—not.”

Laurent smacked him again with the sword, right on the knee. It hurt so badly Auguste ended up missing dinner, and he was not able to crawl out of bed until the swelling had gone down the next morning.

*

There were times when Auguste did not want to play or ride or do anything. He’d lie in bed whenever he had a free moment, and enjoy the silence of his rooms, the uninterrupted minutes he had to himself. 

It wasn’t often, for he was the Crown Prince and duties were not to be shrugged off. He wasn’t like Laurent, who got to ride and play and sleep during the day if he was fussy. Auguste was a boy on the cusp of manhood. Next year he’d be of age.

Everyone knew better than to bother him when he retreated to his rooms. Mother would cheerfully comment on it at dinner, after a cup or two of wine. She’d say, Auguste, why don’t you lie down, you look like you’re in a mood. Father didn’t care as long as Auguste ate what was expected of him, and woke up early the next day to practice with his sword in the arena.

There was a knock on his door one night, followed by another and another. Whoever was out there had no intention of turning around and leaving.

It was Laurent, still damp from his bath. His hair was wet, curling at his nape like it often did when it rained.

“I’m not in the mood to play,” said Auguste. “Go to your rooms, Laurent.”

Unsurprisingly, Laurent stayed right where he was. 

“I mean it. It’s late, and we both have lessons in the morning.”

“But I thought—” Laurent paused. He was looking up at Auguste, head tilted back, eyes very wide. “Show me the coin? Please?”

Auguste rubbed a hand over his face, pressing the pads of his thumbs to his eyes until it hurt. He wanted to be alone, in silence, without pretenses. And yet even before he lowered his hand and blinked at Laurent, he knew he’d give in. 

“Did you have a bath?” Auguste asked as he crouched down in front of his brother. Laurent nodded vigorously, hair dripping onto the marble. “Then what’s this? Did you forget to wash your ears?”

Laurent laughed when Auguste pulled at his earlobe, producing a small golden coin out of thin air. He touched the spot himself and came away empty-handed, pouting. He was such a sulky child when he didn’t get his way.

“Your Highness,” Huet said. He was out of breath, bent over with his hands on his knees. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Auguste gave Laurent a look. “Did you run away?”

Laurent said, “Another coin?”

“He’ll sleep with me tonight, Huet.” Auguste cleared his throat, and before he could hesitate, he added, “You’re dismissed.”

Auguste’s bed was bigger than Laurent’s in every way. Wider, longer, with a thicker mattress. The wood it was made of was better too, not as old and not as creaky. Laurent seemed to love jumping on it, sending the pillows flying around the room. 

One time he’d jumped hard enough to tear the seam open, feathers filling Auguste’s rooms. He’d been about to turn four, and so Auguste had let it slide, asking one of the servants to sew it back together and not tell Mother and Father about Laurent’s fascination with bouncing.

That night Laurent made him pull the same trick over and over again, Auguste’s golden coin popping into existence from Laurent’s right ear, his wiggly toes, his drying curls. By the time they’d crawled into bed—after a jumping session that went on for far too long—Laurent looked tired, but his eyes were still open when Auguste blew out the last candle. 

Laurent turned to Auguste and touched his face. His little fingers were very cold, which made Auguste frown.

“No mood tonight,” Laurent said, smiling.

“No,” Auguste said. “I suppose not.”

Although it took Auguste longer than usual to fall asleep—Laurent was small but knew how to kick in his dreams, stealing the blankets and hoarding them—he was not angry anymore. Irritation stayed away in the morning, too, as he helped a drowsy Laurent change and carried him to breakfast. 

*

Marianne’s brother came to live at the palace. His name was Oliver, a spindly child that had barely seen eleven winters. He was quiet as a mouse most of the time, but more than once had Auguste heard from the gossiping servants that he had a mean tongue on him. 

“He helps in the kitchens,” Mother told Auguste once. She was busy looking at traveling veils, dusty-pink and light-blue. “Marianne’s parents couldn’t feed him, so now he’s here. Auguste, hand me the white gown—the other white gown. With lace.”

Auguste forgot about him soon enough. He was too old to play with Laurent, and even if he wasn’t his sharp mouth wasn’t something Auguste wanted around his brother. There was a meanness in him Auguste disliked. Oliver looked vicious in the hallways, as he carried trays and boxes to and from the kitchens. 

A week before the boy was sent back to Varenne, Auguste caught Marianne arguing with him in the gardens. 

It was late, and Auguste had spent the day in the forest with Father and the King’s Guard, examining trails and routes for the annual royal hunt. All he wanted was to bathe and sleep, exhausted as he was.

He only stopped to look at the bickering siblings because he heard Oliver crying. When Auguste looked closely, separated from them by the oak tree, he saw Oliver clutching his ear.

Marianne held something shiny in her hand, small and pebbled. She kept shoving it into Oliver’s face, her voice too low to be heard but sharp enough that Auguste knew she was not pleased with her brother. 

Eventually, Auguste retreated to his rooms, his exhaustion winning over his curiosity. He’d never liked gossip, anyway.

*

He didn’t see Oliver again after that. Marianne, who’d been Laurent’s companion for years, announced one morning after breakfast that she had urgent matters to attend to in Varenne. Something about a sick father who needed care and time and effort. 

Auguste did not think of them again, not until it was too late to even send her a letter.

**10 — 22**

“Why do you look at Lady Lucienne like that?”

Auguste laughed. He couldn’t help it, the sound startled out of him by Laurent’s words. He was certain his cheeks were red. “Like what?”

Laurent made a face: cross-eyed, open-mouthed, hands tucked under his chin. When he was satisfied, he said, “Like that.”

“Ah,” said Auguste. “Like an ugly child?”

“Auguste.”

Auguste plucked a flower from the patch of soil to his right. He remembered a second too late that wasn’t allowed. Mother was most particular about her flowers. “She’s pretty.”

“She isn’t,” said Laurent, very, very seriously. He even closed his book and set it down on the edge of the fountain. “Her teeth are too big.”

They were. “Are they?”

“And her hair is always falling out. It’s disgusting.”

Auguste continued to look at the flower in his hand. It was a purple orchid. He had a feeling Lady Lucienne would have liked it, had Auguste been allowed to give it to her.

“One day you’ll understand,” said Auguste. “Women will start to look pretty to you after your fourteenth birthday, I suppose.”

“No, they won’t.”

“I think they will.”

Laurent pursed his mouth. His golden eyebrows were touching, thin lines appearing on his forehead. “They won’t.”

“Won’t you get lonely?” said Auguste. “Without a wife?”

Laurent sighed. He patted Auguste’s hand like he’d seen Mother do to her friends sometimes. Thrice he touched it. “I have my books. And you. I won’t be lonely.”

Auguste’s chest felt too tight. He smiled as he handed Laurent the flower. “For your book,” he said. “You have to let it dry between the pages. Like this.”

Laurent watched him. He was a smart child, in Auguste’s opinion. Sword-wielding wasn’t for him, and from the looks of it neither was lyre-playing. He liked to read.

“Thank you,” said Laurent very politely. It was clear he thought it was a stupid gift. 

Auguste touched his cheek. “You’re welcome.”

**12 — 24**

“Mother is going to die,” said Laurent.

They were sitting under the oak tree in the gardens. It was summer, and the shade felt nice enough to nap in. Auguste only had a few more minutes before he had to go to a meeting with Father, and he’d chosen to spend his lunch here with Laurent, to make sure he ate. 

Sometimes he didn’t. He’d nibble on an apple or a pastry, only to leave it forgotten the next moment, too busy reading books or playing chess. They never ate their meals together now, not since Mother had stopped being able to leave her rooms. 

Auguste put down the pear he’d been about to bite into. “Laurent.”

Laurent looked away. He was all elbows nowadays, still shorter than others his age, and when he hugged his knees to his chest he looked even more like a child. 

“I heard Paschal say so to Father. She won’t make it to autumn.”

Auguste already knew that. He’d heard it too, from Uncle. No one had wanted to say anything to Laurent, thinking she might improve. She had, once. The bleeding had stopped and so had her nausea. But then the illness had come again, more vicious than before.

“It’s true that she’s very ill,” Auguste said carefully. He didn’t want to lie to Laurent. “You haven’t seen her in a while, but I think…”

Silence. Laurent was looking at him, his pointy chin on his knees. The words got lost somewhere in Auguste’s throat, refusing to come out. _Don’t look at me like that_ , he wanted to say, and almost did. _She’s my mother too_.

“Come here,” Auguste said.

“What for?”

Auguste bit his cheek. It was hard sometimes to be patient with Laurent, especially when he got like this, and Auguste’s temper wasn’t the best after the long days he had to endure. But still he managed to keep the frustration at bay.

His hand found Laurent’s, tugging him away from that awkward position he was in. Like a cat, Laurent tried to resist at first, feebly, but soon settled into Auguste’s side. He was warm as if he’d spent the whole day under the sunlight. 

Auguste held him closer. “All will be well. You’ll see.”

“Even if she dies?”

There was a challenge in Laurent’s voice. An edge. Auguste wished he could smooth it away, that he could promise that Mother wouldn’t leave them until Laurent was of age. Instead, Auguste took his time trying to put together an answer, running his fingers through Laurent’s hair. It wasn’t curly anymore, hadn’t been for years.

“Even if she dies,” Auguste said, “you’ll still have me. And Father.”

Laurent said nothing. He stayed put, tucked into Auguste’s side, and only tilted his head when Auguste tried to feed him a piece of pear moments later. 

  
*

Paschal turned out to be wrong. Mother did live past that year’s autumn, and died just as the first flowers of spring had begun to bloom.

  


**13 — 25**

Something changed in Laurent after Father’s death.

There were times when Auguste managed to convince himself of what everyone around him insisted on. Laurent had lost both Mother and Father in the span of a few months, and the war with Akielos was making it harder than ever for Auguste to teach him how to grieve, how to make peace with what couldn’t be changed. Laurent was moody and irascible, prone to silence when left to his own devices. He had no friends his age.

But there were other times when Auguste couldn’t lie to himself as easily. How long had it been since they’d both gone out riding? How long since Laurent had spent a day in the stables? 

“I worry,” Auguste said during breakfast one morning. Laurent had refused to join them, claiming he hadn’t slept well the night before. “And I know you’ll say I do so in excess, but how can I not when he’s like this?”

Uncle dabbed at his mouth with the cloth napkin he had on his lap. It was the color of apricots. “He’s a growing boy, Auguste. Your father didn’t know what to do with you either when you were his age.”

Auguste wanted to protest. He’d never behaved like this in his life, ever. Father wouldn’t have stood for it—the talking back, the not talking, the avoidance of everything and everyone—and Auguste knew it. Even Mother would have objected, would have grabbed Laurent by the shoulders to shake this wildness out of him.

But they were dead and buried. They’d never do anything again.

Uncle said, “If it pleases you, I’ll stay with him this time. It will only be for a couple of weeks anyway.”

Relief. How many nights had Auguste spent awake, agonizing over the thought of Laurent surrounded by strangers? Or worse, Laurent close to the battlefields, watching it all? 

“Thank you,” Auguste said. He was glad the Fever had spared Uncle. He was so glad he could almost cry for it. “I’ll try to come back sooner. Two weeks, at most.”

Uncle’s smile was radiant. Reassuring. “Wars demand time. There is no rush.”

*

They saw him off in the gardens. Laurent was looking at him without really looking, in that new way he had of staring at people. He didn’t object when Auguste opened his arms for an embrace, but he did look at Uncle first. As if asking for permission.

It left a bitter taste in Auguste’s mouth, the exchange. It followed him to the south, and stayed with him throughout the negotiations, the arguments, the nights spent riding or sleeping in a foreign bed. 

When Auguste tried to summon that memory for comfort, he could never seem to remember Laurent in his arms, or how bright and beautiful the day had been. He could only see two sets of blue eyes, staring at each other, leaving him out of a silent conversation.

*

Auguste saw him from across the courtyard. Laurent was taller than he’d been a few weeks ago, somehow thinner. He stood next to a column, so far away it was as though he was trying not to get noticed. He tilted his head to the side, watching the sun above him with a weird expression on his face. 

And that’s when Auguste saw it, a flash of blue so bright it made his eyes hurt.

The voices around Auguste dimmed to a faint buzzing as he advanced, shoving thankful hands away, elbowing Lords and Councillors alike. He only stopped when he was standing right in front of Laurent, so close the smell of sweet-scented oils burned his nose.

Wordlessly, Auguste reached out and touched the side of Laurent’s head. He cradled Laurent’s cheek in his hand and, amazed at how warm his skin was, even after all these years, pushed back the locks of hair that were covering his right ear. 

His fingers closed around the earring. Bile rose in his throat, bitter and hot and disgusting. He thought of tearing it off right then and there, his hand covered in blood.

“Who gave this to you?” 

Laurent tensed. In a weird voice, he said, “It was a present.”

He did this, sometimes. Deflect and lie and walk out during conversations he no longer found pleasing. 

“You have not answered my question, Laurent. Who gave this to you?”

Auguste saw Laurent hesitate. The pause stretched on and on, and with every second that passed, Auguste felt the dread inside him swell and grow, like an organ being pumped full of air, ready to burst. He thought he might be sick. 

“Uncle,” Laurent said, tilting his head away so that his hair could hide the present once more. “He said it matches my eyes.”

The sun hid behind a cloud as Auguste moved away from Laurent and started the shame-filled walk to his brother’s rooms. He could barely breathe, every step he took tightening his ribcage. He was faintly aware of Laurent tugging on his sleeve, trying to hold him back, talking to him, pleading. 

It seemed to Auguste the sun did not come out again in Vere, not that day or the next. Not for many, many years.


End file.
